Summer Time
by Mad Maudlin
Summary: The summer of 1981 feels like it's never going to end.


Summer Time

by Mad Maudlin

Summer days feel like suspended time, sometimes, like one harsh white afternoon that will never fade, until it does, into sticky purple evenings and brief nights, then pink and yellow mornings. It feels like the same day repeated over and over, an unbroken string of long hot empty hours. The future in dim; the past recedes; it seems that summer has always been, and always will be, the three of them in this house, muggy and golden.

When James concentrates, he can remember—so long since the Fidelius charm, so long until the autumn—but if not for the calendar tacked to the kitchen wall he'd have no idea of the passage of time at all. Sometimes Lily forgets to mark off a day, and they spend hours arguing about it, debating each other's memories while Harry throws cereal on the floor. They could check the date on the wireless but don't; it might break the summer spell that's on them. Instead they argue until Harry gets fussy, or until Lily does that thing with the sweaty tendrils of hair escaping her ponytail, or until she gets The Look in her eyes; in any case Harry goes down for a nap, and more often than not, so do they.

Indeed, James thinks they're having more sex now that they've had since Harry was born—hell, since he was conceived. Maybe _ever_. It's not like there's much else to do around the house, an elderly relic of the glory of Clan Potter. Lily says it's charming; James remembers visiting his grandparents here when he was a boy, and when he stops to think about it he figures that he and Lily are probably sleeping in their old bedroom, probably their old bed. That's a mental image to put him off sex for a while, but never long, because he's twenty-one, and Lily is beautiful, and there's nothing else in the house to really _do._

They could go out; they don't. Despite knowing that the charm is on _them_ and not the house, somehow they both feel safer in its walls, out of sight, or at least protected by the iron fence. When they need groceries or things they stay on each others' hips, and James walks with the string bag in one hand and his wand in the other, tucked up in his sleeve, just in case. But mostly they stay inside, and read, or clean the old house, or have sex. He could think of less pleasant lives.

They don't talk a lot; it would be too much. Neither of them really wants to think of the war, of the friends who are dying, of the shadow laying on their lives and Harry's. In the endless summer it's easy to pretend that the future is never going to come, that they will always be here in old house together, that all is well as long as they don't turn on the wireless. When they do talk, it's about trivial things, like the state of the garden or the state of the laundry or how big Harry is getting these days. Occasionally they talk about the future, telling each other stories about what they will be doing in a year, in ten years, fifty, when they die. The stories aren't real because the future isn't coming; it's just a way to pass the time.

"Let's make Harry a sister," Lily says one night as she pulls off her top.

"Mmm-hmmm," James says, then, "What?"

"Or a brother." She pushes him down on his back and leans over him, breasts hanging full and warm, grinding herself against his erection through their clothes.

James has a hard time catching up with the conversation. "What, _now?"_

"Of course not—" Lily rises, rears up like a lioness to help James unbutton her shorts, "I'm still recovering from Harry, I like having my body to myself again."

"What about me?" Because her shorts are down and, surprise, no panties. For the next little while they were rather too occupied to talk.

"In a year or two, maybe," Lily says later.

"What? When?"

"Harry's sister."

"Oh."

"Or a brother."

James isn't sure, but he imagines it anyway. He can imagine any future he likes and none will come, because in their bubble of summer there is no passing time. Maybe they will look back on this and laugh. Maybe they'll never speak of this again. Maybe they'll come back to this house during the holidays, with Harry, and—yes, a little girl with Lily's red hair—and the kids will chase each other through the halls and on the grounds and no one will be afraid anymore. Maybe, when it's over, they'll knock the house down. The future is hazy with possibilities, with dreams that will not come.

James finds himself doing things he wouldn't expect. He learns to cook; Lily stands over his shoulder with Harry in her arms and dictates dinner like a potion, and what results is a surprising approximation of edible. They spend an entire afternoon laying on the floor of the parlor with the windows drawn, singing, until Lily runs up to the attic and come downs with the part of her record collection Petunia didn't smash. James marvels at the glossy black plastic until Lily snatched one from his fingers and taps it with her wand, and while he doesn't catch the charm he knows well enough to duck and cover when the record starts to float and spin like fury. Lily laughs at him; a moment later, there's blast of drums and guitar, and for the first time James meets Paul McCartney.

Another morning it's too hot to move, but James knows he can't just lie in bed forever, so he comes downstairs naked. Lily screeches. "Put some trousers on!"

"Why?" He rubs Harry's head and steals an orange slice; it's tart-sweet, deliciously cool. "'S hot."

"You can't just walk around the house naked!"

James looks at Lily, in tiny shorts and an even tinier top, at Harry in nothing but a diaper. "Give me one good reason why I can't, eh?"

She sputters. "It's—you—it's a bad example for Harry!"

"How is it a bad example?" James pats the baby's head again and pulls a face that makes him laugh.

"You're going to give a warped sense of normalcy, is how."

James smirks. "I dunno," he says, "I think it's good for him to see where he came from."

Lily's expression is well beyond description. "Where Harry _came_ from?" she says, and carefully sets down the juice bottle.

"Yeah. Think it'd be educational."

"In that case..." Lily's hands fall to the waistband of her shorts; James is silent, challenging, so she pops a button loose. "I think I'm the one who needs to be naked."

They end up demonstrating where Harry came from, though not where the baby could see; then they lie on the cool kitchen tiles, and James holds Lily tightly, despite the slick of sweat between their skins. "You really should wear trousers in the house," she says again with a distinct lack of feeling.

"Why?" James nuzzles her neck, absorbing her smell and taste, reveling the sensory present. "No one's around to see us."

"Someone might."

"No." James squeezes her hand until she squeaks. "No one can see. We're the only people left in the world."

He can't keep something desperate from his voice, and he feels her shake. But she nods, swishing the high fuzzing bun of her hair over James's nose. "Yes," she whispers. "The only ones in the world."

They can't pretend forever. He knows that. He can look at the calendar and count down the days, even if they might've missed marking off one or two at some point. Fall is coming. There's a war outside, and they can't forget it even if they don't want to remember. He wakes up some nights shaking from dreams he can't recount, and he doesn't want his family out of his sight. Lily cries sometimes, and he doesn't have to ask; he tries to kiss it away though he knows he really can't. They watch Harry play with a squashy plush bear for hours one night, just sitting together and watching, until he gets fussy and raises up his arms to be held; then they cradle him between them. James has never felt so weak.

He follows Lily all over the house, just for his own peace of mind. When she gets up at the arse-crack of dawn to work in the little garden, James follows in his pyjamas, and watches her from a lawn chair in the dewy cool with Harry asleep on his chest. Lily follows him, too; one afternoon he dozes off on the floor while reading, and when he wakes up she curled behind him in the same nap, holding Harry to her heart. She crosses her arms over him, makes fists, like she can protect him forever just by loving him enough.

James thinks that she could, too, if anybody can.

The summer seems like it will last forever until an owl falls shrieking from the sky, and leaves its letter on the garden path. Neither James nor Lily will open it, at first; they stare, like it's an artefact from God. Eventually with shaking fingers Lily lifts the creased gray paper and breaks the seal, holding her breath while James clenched his fingers.

It's a card, a brightly-colored, slightly crumpled Carleton creation. A large pastel number one is printed on the front, and when Lily opens it she starts to giggle, then laugh, in tears. "What?" James demands. "What is it?"

She hands it to him. On the inside of the card is a short, bad poem and message in Sirius's smeared and blotted hand. _Sorry for the late wishes, but I couldn't let my godson's first birthday pass without at least a card. Spoil him for me, will you? And tell Harry I'll make it up to him soon. Think one is too young for a boy's first broomstick?_

His signature is just as bold as ever; _Love Peter_ is squished in a corner, since of course he would have had to pass it on. James looks at Lily, then at the card, and then through the kitchen window at the calendar on the wall that's resolution marked at July 29th. Lily is still giggling. Harry picks up the torn envelope and gums on the corner a bit.

That night they have a little cake for Harry, and they sing off-key and make love until the sun goes down. When Lily is asleep, James creeps downstairs and turns the wireless on; sure enough, it's second August now, they haven't been good at keeping count. He folds over the kitchen calendar and marks out squares in pen, then counts, and counts again, how fast the summer's end is drawing in.


End file.
